


never ask for help, rather go to hell

by backofthefront



Series: my heart's an autoclave [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Begging, Blood Kink, Bruises, Choking, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Hand & Finger Kink, Light daddy kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Violence, Slut Shaming, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, i imagined alex as historical version and burr as the play version? idk, its really only one remark, light necrophilia fantasies?, non-con ish? like alex is into it this is just fucked up basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9362813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backofthefront/pseuds/backofthefront
Summary: Title from ‘you haunt me’ by sir sly (personally i like the Amtrac remix much better than the original.) Go listen to it and tell me it isn’t a hamburr song. I had such a hard time choosing just one line for the title, tbh.This was actually also loosely inspired by that line in the Chernow that Burr’s “shooting Hamilton didn’t stunt his sexual appetite and may have even enhanced it.” I actually hate the line being in the bio- I find it at best unnecessary and unfounded speculation and completely out of place, and at worst needless defamation of Burr’s character in an otherwise factual text. But, I have a huge thing for blood kink and love to write violence, so was I going to let that stop me? No. Please read the tags! Turn back now! Unless this is your thing. In that case, welcome to the club. Enjoy, sinners!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘you haunt me’ by sir sly (personally i like the Amtrac remix much better than the original.) Go listen to it and tell me it isn’t a hamburr song. I had such a hard time choosing just one line for the title, tbh. 
> 
> This was actually also loosely inspired by that line in the Chernow that Burr’s “shooting Hamilton didn’t stunt his sexual appetite and may have even enhanced it.” I actually hate the line being in the bio- I find it at best unnecessary and unfounded speculation and completely out of place, and at worst needless defamation of Burr’s character in an otherwise factual text. But, I have a huge thing for blood kink and love to write violence, so was I going to let that stop me? No. Please read the tags! Turn back now! Unless this is your thing. In that case, welcome to the club. Enjoy, sinners!

 

Alex’s skin was warm. Hot, even, as if a fire were burning just beneath its surface- and really, could Burr expect any less? Everything about Alex was fiery. His temper, his unruly auburn hair, his scarlet blush when he was angry, or embarrassed, or aroused. 

 

Burr’s hands, according to Alex, were like ice trailing over his skin. Strong hands, larger than Alex’s, sliding over his ribs, down to the valleys created by his protruding hipbones, squeezing enough to bruise. When Burr had been a child, his mother used to clasp his hands in her own, and she would gasp daintily at the temperature difference, exclaiming “Cold hands means warm heart!” She would jab him playfully in the left side of the chest, laughing. It was one of Burr’s only memories of her. Frankly , he was surprised he even remembered that much. He had only been a few years old when she died. Sometimes he wondered if he had created the memory, if it was a fabrication. 

 

He thought his hands would be larger than hers now. He thought about his parents, sometimes, when he glanced down at his hands. His mother had been wrong. His heart wasn’t warm, no warmer than his hands. 

 

Alex’s was, no doubt. His heart was no less than the seat of his passion, the angry burning beating thing that pumped hot red blood through his veins, animating his body, a vessel with which, it seemed to Burr, Alex used to inflict his mighty wrath on the rest of the poor, unsuspecting world. Beginning, of course, always, with Burr. 

 

The ancient Egyptians had believed the heart, not the brain, was the seat of the soul, the center of the self. Despite all his knowledge of modern medicine (Burr knew more than most people, but less than Alex- and didn’t that seem to be the case with everything,) he was inclined to agree. 

Sometimes, when Burr looked at Alex, pale and small and lying underneath him, he imagined his heart stopping. What Alex would look like without the muscle forcing the blood through his limbs, imagined his lips- red, soft, wet, something that attracted Burr’s harsh teeth more than he’d like to admit- tinging blue, no longer moving and talking and talking and fucking talking at a thousand miles a minute. 

 

Burr laid like a sheet of ice over Hamilton, like the lid of a coffin over a corpse in the morgue. Hamilton was lying back on the bed, skirt long ago tossed to the floor and erection straining visibly, undoubtedly uncomfortable, against his jeans. Burr straddled his, knees placed on either side of Alex, supporting his weight- the only part of Burr touching Alex was his hands, grabbing his hipbones like a life raft in a turbulent sea. 

 

“Gonna bruise, fuckin asshole,” Hamilton whined, twisting to the side, exposing that long stretch of pale neck. Burr ran his hands back up, feeling the map of Alex’s body. It was frailer than most people would probably imagine, and Burr wondered if any of the other people Alex had taken to bed had mapped him out like this- the hills and valleys of his ribs, gripping the protruding hipbones, tracing a finger along the line of his jaw, down his neck- 

 

Burr knew there had been other people. Other men, mostly other women. Alex was a bit of a ladykiller. Then again, so was he. 

 

Burr let his left hand slide back down to Alex’s hip, and brought his right hand up to Alex’s neck, wrapping around it yet not exerting any pressure. The threat of being choked. A looming guillotine of some dark, nebulous, arguably disgusting, definitely dangerous desire- and Alex’s eyes fluttered shut; he inhaled sharply. 

 

Burr smiled, admiring the contrast in their skin tones, his dark hand around Alex’s pale neck. He thought about how easily Alex bruised, about all the red-yellow-purple marks he had left all over Alex’s body. Claimed territory. A painter, a canvas. A mapmaker, an adventurer and a blank page. Master of the land of Alex’s body. The possessor, the property. 

 

Burr slowly tightened his grip, feeling his pulse almost combine with Alex’s- it was everywhere, oppressive, a rush in his ears. Alex’s heart was beating faster than usual, only increasing with the pressure, then slowing again. Alex’s eyes fluttered open, and he gazed up at Burr through the haze of his long lashes. Burr relaxed his grip, removing his hand until it was again just a threat, a presence, only leaving two fingers on Alex’s pulse point to feel the thrum of his blood. 

 

“Choke me Daddy,” Alex laughed, but it came out as more of a weak cough than anything else. His voice was hoarse, a fact that Burr didn’t miss- and, despite the words, the tone went straight to his dick. 

 

Burr slapped Alex straight across the face. It rang out in the dismal, Spartan bedroom- Alex had never been the interior decorator. Alex’s head turned with the force of it, eyes already watering. There was a charge in the air, between the two of them, some sort of atmospheric absorption of their kinetic energy, maybe. 

 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Burr spat. Alex grunted, closing his eyes again. One side of his face was pressed into the mattress; his hair was coming loose from the ponytail he’d put it in earlier- which made it easier for Burr to grab the loose pieces at the top of his head, thread his finger through them, and yank Alex’s head, forcefully turning it to face Burr. 

 

“Do you fucking hear me? What have I told you, slut?” Alex opened his eyes, a hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips. Alex got off on it, Burr knew. The fight, maybe, or maybe he just needed to feel like he lost. Alex never wanted control in the bedroom. He didn’t want to give it up, though. No, he would never take such an easy way out. Communication, especially in this, he saw as a sign of weakness. 

 

No, he wanted Burr to take it. 

 

Another slap, the a sharp tug to the hair at the base of his scalp, sending a fiery jolt of pain through it, causing Alex to buck up, arching his back in a desperate attempt to grind his cock against Burr’s leg and a half-assed attempt to rear, like a horse, away from the source of the pain. 

 

“Disgusting. Did you even hear me? Where did that smart mouth go?” Alex hummed weakly. 

 

Burr scoffed. “Pathetic. You’re a pathetic little slut.” He tugged Alex’s ponytail again, then moved his hand back down to his throat. 

 

“Desperate, rutting against my leg. Grinding like you’re some fucking highschool kid.” He tightened his grip with every word, a sharp glint in his eye, his tone sharp and precise. In control. 

 

“You’re like a bitch in heat. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” This was part of the game, Burr knew. He didn’t really expect an answer- not that Alex could say much of anything, even if he wanted to. With Burr’s hand wrapped around his throat, he could not talk. He could barely manage a single aborted whine. 

 

“No words to justify your pathetic, needy little existence? You truly are an embarrassment.” He released his grip completely, retracting his hand, and taking the other from the place it had been occupying at Alex’s left hip. Burr was pleased to see there was already a bruise starting to form there, in the shape of his hand. 

  
  


Alex coughed weakly, turning his head so he didn’t have to look Burr in the face. 

 

“Then again,” Burr mused, half for his own amusement, and half to antagonize a response from Alex, “I think I like it when my hands are around your pretty little throat. It’s the only time you’re quiet.” He leaned forward, pressing a painful kiss into Alex’s neck, where his hands had just been. 

 

Burr worked at Alex’s neck for a minute, Alex tilting his head to give him more access. 

 

“Want me to mark you all up, make you mine,” he growled. “Let everyone know who you belong to, who tames the unstoppable Alexander Hamilton. Let everyone know who the little slut belongs to.” He grabbed Alex’s chin, jostling his head so it was positioned right in front of Burr’s face; Alex was unable to look away. “Who do you belong to?” 

 

Alex moaned, almost reduced to tears. The great Alexander Hamilton, everyone, Burr thought slyly to himself. Line up, take a picture, it will last longer. 

 

“Yours,” Alex croaked. “Yours.” 

 

Burr growled, lunging forward to leave more hickeys on his already abused neck, biting along his jawline. “Mine. I’m the only one who can make you like this. The only one who can give you what you really need.” 

 

Alex moaned in agreement. 

 

Burr pulled back, despite disappointed groans from Alex, and moved down to unbutton Alex’s jeans, finally. Before he pulled them down, he palmed Alex’s cock, cupping it and squeezing it just on the wrong side of too hard. Too hard to provide any relief or pleasure, and yet still a reminder to Alex of the circumstances and his arousal. 

 

“Fucking whore,” Burr scoffed, his voice almost sounding bored. His dick was certainly taking an interest- in fact, he was as hard as Alex- but Alex didn’t need to know that. What would be the fun, then? 

 

“Hard just from getting all bruised up. You love it when people use you. Little slut. I bet you’d do anything for me right now, just to get the chance to rub off on my leg like a dog. Bet you’d drop down on your knees in front of Washington. Bet you’d suck Washington’s cock, call him Daddy, beg him to let you cum.” 

 

Alex’s head lifted off the bed, eyeing Burr. “D- No, Don’t talk about work right now, that’s not-” 

 

Burr cut him off with another painful squeeze. Then, when he was done, Alex’s head flopped back on the bed, Burr moved his hand up to the band of Alex’s underwear, pulling the elastic out, the letting it go. It made a satisfying snap as it hit Alex’s skin, eliciting a howl. 

 

“I’ll talk about whoever and whatever I damn well please. And you’ll like it, because you’re hoping later I’ll touch your cock without the pants in the way. And maybe you’re right, but only if you’re a good boy. I’ll get off either way, make you drop down on your knees and choke on my cock like I know you want, but I don’t have to let you get off.” 

 

He moved back up to Alex’s face, looked down at him, Alex flinching under the cold stare. 

 

“Beg for it. Wanna hear that pretty mouth of yours at work, show me what all the fuss is about,” Burr demanded. 

 

Alex closed his eyes, writhed a second, gulped. “Please,” he said. It came out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible. 

 

Burr clicked his tongue. 

 

“Now that won’t do. I want to hear you, whore. Ask me for it; beg me for it; tell me you want it.”

 

Alex whined, a high-pitched sound like that of a cat stuck on a high shelf, afraid to jump down. He squirmed on the bed, writhing like an animal in heat, pressing his body into any accessible part of Burr he could find, which happened to be mostly his legs and lower arms. 

 

“With your words, Alex,” Burr drawled, for the first time using his actual name, and not a degrading placeholder. 

 

“Please, Burr, I need you, need your cock, fuck my mouth, fuck my ass, I need your hands on me, please, please, Sir!” Hamilton’s stubborn will broke, and he babbled out his pleas in a barely coherent stream, voice cracking and teary-eyed. 

 

Bur laughed, low and throaty. “That’s a good boy.” He ran his fingers lightly down the seam on the inside of Alex’s jeans, tracing down his thigh and back up again. For Alex, it was an exquisite torture. His barely stifled whines and furrowed brow sent a hot shock of pleasure straight to Burr’s cock, a zing zipping up his spine, infecting him with the thrill of power. 

 

Alex had never been patient. No matter what Burr did to him, the little brat never learned and so he did shit like reach for his own pants to begin taking them off. Burr, not amused with the flagrant disrespect, grabbed Alex’s wrist and squeezed it until Alex let out a pained gasp. 

 

“No, you need to learn patience. Needy piece of shit.” 

He released Alex’s hand, letting it flop onto the bed, limp. 

 

Again, Burr pictured, somewhat against his own will, Alex’s entire body going limp and lifeless, pliant beneath his hands. Skin cold for once, the fight gone out of him. 

 

Burr shook his head, as if playing etch-a-sketch with the mental image. No, Alex was meant to fight. The only Alex he wanted was the one that resisted. Had he been a more sentimental man, he might have spewed something about it being more about the journey than the destination, more about the fight than the conquest, or some such bullshit. He was sure Alex would appreciate it, the little shit had always been wordy. Very fond of metaphor. 

 

Burr, though, was a much more literal man. 

 

“Take your pants off,” he clipped, and Alex scrambled to do so. The internal conflict between the part of him that wanted to be a brat and resist Burr’s commands as long as possible and the part of him that was desperate to come was apparently resolved rather quickly, with nothing more than a strange look, almost akin to constipation, flitting across Alex’s face for a second before his pants went, obediently, flying across the room, landing perfectly draped over a nearby chair. 

 

Burr wondered vaguely if Alex had placed the chair there on purpose, if the frequency of clothing items, hastily removed and tossed and thus flying through the air across the room, required such a landing spot. Otherwise, it was a strange place for a chair. A few feet from one of Alex’s many bookshelves, and not accompanied by an end table or anything of the like, not even a reading lamp. Plus, it was wooden. Antique-looking, probably uncomfortable. 

 

Burr turned back to Alex, who had hooked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs and had started removing them as well. 

 

By the time Burr had thought through his next move, Alex’s underwear had landed on the floor. He had seen them- they were drenched in precome, and what a bitch that would be to get out- but now he was much more focused on Alex’s cock, rock-hard and curved up to rest against his stomach. Alex’s teeth were clamped down on his lower lip, and a small droplet of blood was beginning to form there. It almost exacty mirrored the precome blossoming on the tip of Alex’s cock. Burr didn’t know which he was more tempted to lick, but he knew Alex would want some relief on his cock, so, obviously, he went for the mouth instead. 

 

Alex whined, wrapping his left hand around his cock before Burr grabbed his wrist again, stopping him. 

 

“You don’t come until I say you do, whore. Hands off for now.” 

 

Alex smiled softly, letting Burr take the physical advantage of- whatever this was. A dance, a fight, a game. It was all the same to Burr, as long as he got to put Alex in his place, and, at some point, preferably put his cock in Alex. 

 

That, though, was a secondary condition. 

 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Alex complains, sitting up to chase Burr as he retreats. Burr frowns, slaps him quickly and with no warning. 

 

“Watch your tone. You don’t get to demand me.” Burr could see Alex’s mouth opening, those pretty, bloody lips forming a retort. Before Alex could respond, Burr lunged forward, threading his left hand through Alex’s hair on just the wrong side of too tightly, providing a constant pain to Alex’s scalp. With his other hand, he gripped the base of Alex’s cock, making it impossible for him to come. With his left hand, he guided Alex’s head to meet his mouth, and went straight to work biting at sucking at Alex’s lip, tracing his tongue over the bottom one, smearing the blood over his chin. 

 

Burr silently toyed with the idea of what it would be like to really make Alex bleed. A clean pocket knife, really mark him up. He wasn’t sure if he would go for it, at least at first, but Alex had always been pretty easy to convince- at least when it came to sex. Outside of the bedroom- or living room, or kitchen, or closet in Thomas Jefferson’s house, whenever they happened to be fucking- Alex was as unflappable as a boulder in his stances and ideas. 

 

Burr gave a particularly harsh bite to Alex’s lower lip, tasting the iron on his tongue, and causing Alex to yelp. In tandem with that action, he gave his cock a firm squeeze. Then Burr backed away, just enough to see the desperate light in Alex’s eyes. He let his hands fall away from Alex, pushing him comparatively gently down so he was once again lying flat on the bed. It was a pity Alex’s sheets were white; after this they would no doubt be irreversibly stained. 

  
  


But that wasn’t Burr’s problem. 

 

Ignoring his own prominent erection, Burr moved down to better access Alex’s cock. He gripped it with one hand; with the other he traced a line down the vein in the underside. Alex couldn’t contain a moan. 

 

“Mouthy little shit,” Burr said, using his fingernail to scrape the same path back down Alex’s dick. Alex shuddered, trembling like a flag in a storm under the simple touch. Burr moved on to fondling his balls. 

 

“Now you’re not going to come? I thought you’d spill all over my hand in a minute, you’re so full of fucking cum all the time. Whore.” 

 

With the last insult, Alex did come, in body-wracking shudders as the fluid pulsed out of his cock and dripped onto Burr’s hand. 

 

Burr kept stroking him lazily, taking almost an air of boredom, until Alex began to show signs of overstimulation becoming painful. 

 

Burr retracted his hand, made a show of looking down in disgust at the cum coating it. 

 

“Messy slut. Look at this.” He held up his hand, ostensibly for Alex to inspect. Alex took the bait, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side and following the path of Burr’s hand movement with his eyes and yet still not realing where it was going until Burr had smacked him in the face, yet again, this time with a fisful of Alex’s own cum. Alex didn’t bother trying to point out the hypocrisy of Burr slapping him in the face for cumming on his hand when Burr, just a few moments ago, had been berating him for not doing the same thing. Truthfully, it didn’t even register. It wouldn’t have mattered even if Alex had been able to formulate the argument, though. The game wasn’t about the logistics of a fair argument. It was about being treated like what both men in the room knew he really was- a filthy, needy slut. 

 

A screaming red handprint was rapidly turning into a bruise- Alex bruised so easily, Burr thought in delight- and bits of come now accompanied the blood and spit and tears streaking Alex’s face. His hair tie had fallen out at some point, and a few tendrils of ginger hair stuck to Alex’s cheeks and forehead, held there in part by cum and drying blood, now an aesthetically pleasing burgundy color. 

 

Burr stood up, off the bed, slipping his hands on Alex’s bedsheets. They had already suffered enough, what was a little more desecration worth? 

 

Alex sat up, chest heaving with heavy breaths, borderline panting. Alex curled his lip at the sheets, then cast his eyes up at Burr. 

 

“I’m leaving.” Alex’s eyes got impossibly wider at Burr’s blunt announcement, and he scrambled to stand up, to get back on equal footing, to convince Burr to- to what? 

 

“Why? Just like that? W- Why?” Okay, so apparently Alex hadn’t fully regained his verbal and cognitive abilities. Good, that just made it easier for Burr. 

 

“Why do you care?” Burr asked sarcastically. “Does the little slut still need attention? Want me to fuck your face? You that insatiable?” Alex had no response, for once, casting his eyes down at the floor instead. 

 

“As much as I would love to stick my cock in you, Alex, I have shit to do. I have a job too, you know.” Burr shot him a pointed look, and Alex rolled his eyes for lack of a coherent retort. 

 

Burr strode over to the door, leaving Alex standing in the center of the room, which now smelled strongly of sex and sweat, covered in cum and looking completely and utterly debauched. 

 

He turned the knob, opening the door. Alex didn’t move after him. 

 

“You’re not special, Alex. No matter how Washington might make you feel.” 

 

He had slammed the door shut before Alex had a chance to respond. 

  
Then again, he really had no response to give. 

**Author's Note:**

> (yeah, there are a lot of comma splices in this. i just.... dont care enough to fix them. smh @ me.)


End file.
